


Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen, Post-Battle of Camlann (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23464231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: So I took my ownDo Not Go Gentle Into That Good Nightand asked myselfhow can I strip the hope away from it and still love the end result?This was the answer.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

[In which Bedivere rages against the missives Gawain’s ghost has to deliver – this time not for general audiences.]

It had been less than a month since his King had died while he sat vigil, having thrown Excalibur in the lake despite every fiber of his being telling him not to.

In the end, he trusted Arthur and wanted to see whatever was left upheld the King's legacy.

Regardless of how much of it was in tatters, thrown about the battlefield and castle alike.

As such, when he found himself staring down the ghost of Gawain for the third morning in a row, he decided he needed to say something aloud before he lost what little of his mind was left to wondering if he had anything left of his own thoughts to begin with.

“No,” Bedivere shook his head as he addressed the ghost, “You cannot be here. I’ve gone mad. The wine was poisoned. My mind has fractured under duress.”

He paced the length of his quarters, refusing to look at the apparition who took the shape of Gawain sunning itself in the light of the window.

“I’m afraid all three of those guesses are wrong,” Gawain told him, “Surely, this isn't the strangest thing you have experienced.”

“Not the strangest,” Bedivere's voice cracked.

“We both know it's been a long, long road to get here,” the ghost that may well have been Gawain at one point argued.

“Everyone is dead,” Bedivere’s voice was the type of flat that only happened when one was on the verge of hysterics, “The King, Kay, Lancelot, Galahad, every single one of your brothers.”

“Bors lives,” Gawain told him, “as do Dinadan, Percival and the wives and children of your brothers-in-arms.”

“I never much cared for wives or children,” Bedivere spat, “And for the rest of them, what does it matter? They did not stand with their King for his final battle, did not sit vigil while his life faded. If they are not dead in body they are in spirit; cowards who could not stand for their King and Court do not deserve to be recognized as still among the living.”

“Harsh words,” Gawain's ghost tutted, “We both know you don't mean them.”

Bedivere stopped pacing to sit on the chair by desk. Leaning one elbow on the table, he buried his face in his hand.

“Why are you here?” Bedivere asked, voice broken, “If my first three guesses were incorrect, why are you here?”

“Arthur only went to war against Lancelot because he believed his legacy demanded it,” Gawain didn’t answer the question, “And Lancelot only went to war against Arthur because he could not forgive Arthur for exposing his affair with the Queen.”

“You're the one who started this war!” Bedivere flipped the desk as he stood up, “Your desire for revenge had you use your own King as a pawn, and now look. Everyone, dead, because of you.”

The desk hit the stone floor with a clatter, wood splintering and one leg snapping off from the force.

“You say that as if you spoke against the war,” Gawain raised a knowing eye brow.

“You say that as if you were privy to every meeting around the war table,” Bedivere snarled, “You, the Knight of the Sun, Orkney's hope, hid your cowardice behind your nobility until you decided your stake in it was too personal.”

Some shouts, far down the hall, told Bedivere the commotion had drawn attention. He kept his attention on Gawain's ghost.

“Tell me,” Bedivere growled, “and tell me honestly: Did you value the delicate balance between Camelot and Wars we never fought before your brothers were killed at the Queen's burning?”

“They were my brothers,” the apparition flickered, almost as if to leave, “cut down – Unarmed! – well before their prime because the King wanted to burn the Queen instead of handling it in the shadows as Kings before him have, and Kings after him will.”

“And you lost your other two at Camlann,” Bedivere sat back down, unfixed eyes gazing towards the broken desk a few feet away, “Your brothers died because of you have no understanding of how war or politics work.”

Gawain frowned, a deep, sorrowful thing. Ghostly brown eyes met Bedivere's steely gray ones, sorrow and sorrow unable to find any respite.

A short, shouted exchange outside the doors told them guards were arriving.

“I also lost my life,” Gawain said as if Bedivere could have forgotten, “You think I don't understand now how near-sighted my rage made me?”

“You can take your belated realizations back to whichever afterlife let you out for the day,” Bedivere growled, “They do neither me nor Camelot any good!”

Gawain made a thoughtful sound, but said no more. The door was swung open by a small group of well-intentioned but under-prepared guards. The force caused the hinges to over-extend, the door bouncing back towards the guard who had taken point.

Bedivere watched at the door sent the point guard sprawling.

Small wonder he was the only survivor.

“Sir,” the guard sounded young, “are you alright?”

“Yes,” Bedivere hissed, “You may leave.”

“But sir,” the guard who was second in the group was staring at the flipped desk.

“You may leave,” Bedivere repeated, more force behind the dismissal.

The second guard made a small sound before someone behind him put a hand on his shoulder. Reluctantly, they left Bedivere to whatever breakdown he was having.

“Don't you dare lecture me on what good death does,” Bedivere snapped at the ghost, “when I do not have that privileged.”

–

“Camelot will need a King.” 

The statement woke Bedivere the next morning, the voice gratingly familiar.

“Jesus and the Holy Virgin,” Bedivere jumped out of bed, “Why?

“Every Kingdom needs a King,” Gawain's ghost said effortlessly.

“Camelot had a King and you lead him to his death,” Bedivere's words did not carry the anger he felt, the hour early and his mind weary.

“That does not change what Camelot needs now,” Gawain replied.

“What Camelot needs is Arthur,” Bedivere grumbled, “or a son of Arthur whose mind was not poisoned by those who would rather control Camelot from the shadows.”

“Which you never did to Arthur,” Gawain pointed out, “even though you were in every position to do so throughout your life.”

“Why are you here?” Bedivere decided that if a ghost could get away with not answering questions, so could he.

Gawain did not reply – a refusal, Bedivere decided, rather than out of ignorance.

Two could play whatever game it was Bedivere found himself trapped in.

Bedivere set about getting ready for the day, his wounds from the battle still healing and  
his mind worn thin. He did his best to ignore the ghost as it kept talking and talking, each word meaning less than the one before it.

“And the thing is,” Gawain showed no signs of silencing himself, “death really makes you think. Makes you realize so much about how you loved was wrong, how much you'd change if you could.”

“I would change many things,” Bedivere huffed, “and I am still alive.”

“Then your initial afterlife isn't looking very pleasant,” Gawain informed him.

“The rest of my life isn't looking pleasant either,” Bedivere muttered as he put the finishing touches on his outfit. It was a simple thing, for the most part – tunic, hose, leather boots that came up past his knees, and a belt to secure the tunic. He pinned a miniature version of Camelot's crest over his heart.

He set to combing out his hair until he could run his brush through it without any knots catching. He tied it loosely at the base of his neck and tucked a pin into the top of the tie.

“The vanity doesn't suite you,” Gawain informed him.

Bedivere grunted but finished the vanity ritual. He took a deep breath and exited his chambers.

“I always thought it would be fun,” Gawain's ghost made walking motions beside Bedivere, “if I got to be a ghost after I died, like all the ones we've seen over the years. Remember that one that specifically went after Bors on our way to -”

“Stop,” Bedivere hissed under his breath.

A nearby servant squeaked and dropped the basked he was carrying.

“Sorry,” Bedivere said, louder. He did not look back to see if his apology was acknowledged. 

Gawain made a humming sound and frowned. “What's the plan for the day?”

“I go to the council,” Bedivere said under his breath, “I listen in on another goddamned day of their ceaseless debates. I pretend like any of it matters without Arthur to execute any of their plans he chooses to build on.”

“So why do you go?” Gawain asked.

Bedivere looked around and, upon finding the hall empty, spoke clearly. “So they do not sully Arthur's legacy by executing someone – or something – in his name. As if death was not enough.”

“You continue to stand vigil,” Gawain used more plain, straightforward words.

“Until the end,” Bedivere closed his eyes for a moment, “whatever that looks like.”

–

“You know,” Gawain's ghost appeared at his bedside right as he thought he was free of the thing, “you handle the council with much more grace and aplomb than Arthur would have.”

“Arthur had a lot of people,” Bedivere wasn't sure how he felt about the ease with which he was willing to enter a conversation with a spirit, “Camelot only has her King.”

“So Camelot has nothing, then?” Gawain asked, tone just a touch too dark to be curious.

“I'm saying Arthur is dead,” Bedivere spat, “and that as long as I still have life running through this cursed form, I will not let Camelot fall to a bunch of rich idiots who would rather turn profit that try to restore Camelot to her glory.”

“You've blamed me for the war several times,” Gawain pointed out, “Why me and not, you know, Mordred? Or Lancelot? Or the Queen?”

“Do you ask these questions because there is no fear of the repercussions of treason in the afterlife?” Bedivere growled.

“Why do you fear treason when there is no King or Queen to carry it out?” Gawain asked.

Bedivere scoffed and crawled under his blankets. They could keep the chill out, but they would not do anything to keep the ghost or the banter it brought away.

“Did you do this to Kay when he was in his titchy moods?” Gawain asked.

“Do not say his name,” Bedivere roared, sitting up in the span of a heartbeat, “Do not compare yourself to him. You wish you could have been a tenth of the man Kay was.”

“Noted,” Gawain's voice was flat – how could a ghost's voice go so flat?

“I blame you because you did nothing to help,” Bedivere growled as he settled back under the covers, “you, in the end, could not see past your own head to realize you could have stopped Lancelot and Arthur both had you valued Camelot as much as you did your own pride.”

“They were my _brothers_ ,” Gawain emphasized.

“And because you sought vengeance for their deaths, the rest of your god-forsaken brothers died, too,” Bedivere reminded him.

–

“Bedivere,” it was the Merlin this time, not Gawain, who woke him from his slumber, “Bedivere, some along, the meeting has began early.”

“Goddamnit,” Bedivere did not feel as if he had slept at all, “I'll be along, please go stall them.”

The Merlin disappeared rather than left.

Bedivere unleashed a string of curses as he shed his smallclothes and donned whatever Court finery he reached first.

“Surely they can make a few moments without you,” Gawain's ghost said to him.

“Maybe it's a good thing you were never King,” Bedivere informed him, “if you cannot understand the value of a single moment.”

–

Bedivere ran to the council chambers, chest heaving as he joined them around the shattered remains of the Table.

It seemed profane, to sit around and debate how to run Camelot when there was no King, no heir, no Queen, no Champion to actually run things or rule by proxy. The remnants of Arthur's council – once merely a formality, now nothing more than some bastards who used Arthur's death as a chance to seize power. They sat on the chairs meant for the Knights, the table itself fractured, unusable. Bedivere reasoned that Arthur had kept them as no more than a formality.

“Oh,” one of them seemed overtly disappointed as Bedivere entered.

“Sir Bedivere!” one of them exclaimed. They all rose to their feet, hands clasped to their sides, posture rigid.

Bedivere looked between them – four today, so one was missing – and the Merlin.

“Merlin,” Bedivere greeted the wizard only, “what brings us to council so early.”

“We,” the one who had been disappointed by Bedivere's entrance, “are discussing matters of the Kingdom. You,” he gave Bedivere a pointed glare, “continue to insert yourself in matters you have no right to access.”

“As the last of our late King's Knights I have every right to be here,” Bedivere did his best not to yell despite the rising volume he couldn't seem to stop, “Perhaps more than you, who was more than happy to live in your own landed houses off whatever coin you felt you deserved regardless of how the rest of the budget was set.”

“Sir Bedivere,” a third one snapped, “you will watch your tongue!”

“And you will watch your actions,” Bedivere was yelling, he knew it, felt rage coursing through his veins, “Just because the rest of the survivors did not have the knowledge of the innermost workings of Camelot does not mean you have the right to act as King. None of you have any **idea** how Arthur ran his Court!”

The council took a collective step back.

“Well,” Gawain said.

“Sir Bedivere,” the Merlin cleared his throat, “can you, in all confidence, say that you know how Arthur ran his Court?”

“On my life,” Bedivere swore the oath without effort or hesitation.

“Down to every branch that needed oversight?” the Merlin prompted.

“And the branches that did not,” Bedivere nodded, “I know how everything down to the cent and piece of grain was divided.”

“Excellent,” the Merlin nodded, “Gentlemen of the council, I do believe we have a solution to your regent problem.

Bedivere's jaw hung open.

This was not where he expected the Merlin's questioning to take things, to take him.

“A Knight who was neither champion nor confidant?” one of the council members sneered.

“Did they miss the part where you were his friend from childhood?” Gawain asked, “If anyone alive knows how Arthur thought, it would be you.”

Kay was unsure if anyone else could hear Gawain. He hoped they could.

“Aside from the late Sir Kay,” the Merlin said slowly as Bedivere repressed a snarl at the ease with which Kay's name was mentioned, at the lack of reverence for the dead, “Bedivere stood by Arthur longer than anyone. If there is a soul alive today that knows the mind of Arthur, will be able to make decisions as if he were Arthur, it is Bedivere.”

The council looked between each other, a series of glances, blinks and head motions that told Bedivere there was a language they shared the rest of the world was not privy to. Where they'd gotten together often enough to develop such a language was beyond him.

“Camelot needs a King,” Gawain repeated.

“Fuck,” Bedivere hissed.

–

“You'll need to make your decision today,” the Merlin told Bedivere as Bedivere tried to clear his head outside the castle grounds, “the council grows more drunk on power by the day. Much longer and they will find a way to dissolve the monarchy entirely.

“And why should I listen to you?” Bedivere asked, his pace brisk, “You, whose advice harmed Arthur more than it helped him,” there was a snarl to the accusation.

“It's you or them,” the Merlin said plainly, “and no matter how you try to argue otherwise, this comes down to your choice.”

Bedivere felt like there would never be another choice to make in his life, just a series of dichotomies that asked him to do the impossible or throw his entire moral code out.

–

“I'll do it,” Bedivere said to the Merlin as he slipped back into his rooms, “come fetch me when whoever the fuck you need to make it official is assembled.”

He did not wait to hear the Merlin's reply before letting the door slam shut behind him.

Immediately, he brought out the wineskin he'd taken to keeping in his rooms, still mostly full. He opened it and began drinking straight from the opening.

“No water with your wine?” Gawain asked.

“Oh piss off,” Bedivere said as a sob shook itself loose, “I should have died with the others.”

“Should is a dangerous word,” Gawain cautioned.

“The whole damned world's dangerous,” Bedivere countered as he took another drink, “How am I supposed to do this alone?”

“You're not alone,” Gawain told him.

“You're a ghost,” Bedivere was already feeling the effects of the wine, “and the Merlin cannot be trusted.”

–

Bedivere sat on Arthur's throne, the crown of the High King perched on his head. It was heavy, physically and otherwise. He sat up straight as he listened to one of the priests who had served Guinevere recite whatever it was he needed to for the official recognition of Bedivere as regent to take effect.

“I'm sorry,” Gawain said, “I am so, truly sorry.”

Bedivere did not respond – could not respond – all eyes in the room on him, staring so intently he rather would have had the gods themselves pick his soul apart and judge every intention, every thought, everything he'd left undone out of fear of exposing the most base elements of his soul.

He wanted to rage, to scream, to remind Gawain how he'd discarded the power he had in life for whatever the path of least resistance was in front of him. To curse the Merlin for every prophesy he had given and acted upon without understanding the consequences. To find Morgan or Lud or anyone who might be able to turn back time so that he could undo the wounding of Camelot before it even began in the first place.

The wine and the rage and the fear and the sorrow and the loss swallow him whole.

The priest closed his bible and bowed before exiting.

Bedivere had, somehow, missed every part of the ceremony that made him the new King.

–

“First order of business,” Bedivere looked around the debris that used to be the Round Table, “The High King's council is dismissed, never to return to the castle.”

“Sir!” one of the council members started to argue, tried to spare his own hide from Bedivere's sentencing.

“You did not serve Arthur,” Bedivere barely kept himself from shouting at them again, “You served your own names, your own legacies. I will keep council as Arthur did – with my most trusted me around the round table.”

“Sir,” a second council member was slightly calmed but equally terrified.

“Out!” Bedivere ordered.

The door guards moved to escort the council members.

There was a small skirmish that resulted in two serious wounds on two different former council members and a lot of yelling before Bedivere was alone in the throne room.

At least, as close to alone as he could manage.

He back on the throne, shoulders slumped. He put his elbows on his knees, partial arm out in front of him and his hand covering his face, fingers splayed.

And like that, he wept. He wept until he emptied his stomach across the floor, his body exhausted and mind emptied of anything that had ever had meaning.

“Penance,” Gawain said.

“What?” Bedivere looked up, eyes unfocused, face pale and splotchy, entire body quivering.

“I'm here to serve a penance,” Gawain managed an entire sentence.

“This is a shitty penance,” Bedivere tried to stand, “Don't you have anyone else to bother?”

“Only that which furthers Camelot,” Gawain sighed.

“Camelot needs a King,” Bedivere's statement was a cruel mockery of Gawain's first assessment from days that felt like lifetimes ago, “Can anyone else even hear you?”

“Merlin,” Gawain said, “I haven't had anyone else to try to talk with.”

“There is an entire castle,” Bedivere pointed out.

“Ah,” Gawain frowned, “but none save you are actual players.”

“This is the worse game I have ever played,” Bedivere finally wiped his mouth, “and I've stabbed myself over games before.”

“I fear it may get worse before it gets better,” Gawain told him.

“Great,” Bedivere grumbled, “there's fear even in death. Is there no reprieve?”

“From being human?” Gawain asked, “No. Not even in death.”

Bedivere sent for someone to fetch him a water bucket and cleaning rags, determined not to think too hard about that.

–

“You really do have the entire thing memorized,” Gawain marveled.

“What?” Bedivere did not look up from the paperwork that should have had at least five other people working on it, “Like no one else did?”

Gawain nearly said that Kay did, but it had been weeks since he'd been yelled at, and wished to keep it that way.

“I'll send for the other survivors,” Bedivere told Gawain, the topic brought on without preamble, “By the time they arrive I will, hopefully, have forgiven their absence.”

“You meant it?” Gawain frowned, “That's a change from their being cowards who deserved death more than recognition.”

“I see no other way,” Bedivere admitted, “Either to the regency problem to to being able to keep Camelot from collasping.

“Mordred was Arthur's only child and he, too, is dead. All his sister's children are dead. Kay, by virtue of being his foster-brother, would have been next, but Kay is dead,” Bedivere flinched at Kay's name, even from his own lips, “Lancelot betrayed Arthur, so no champion-as-regent. But, you knew it would be me, didn't you?”

“It sure wasn't going to be one of Kay's children,” Gawain nearly snorted, “Can you imagine having a literal child on the throne?”

“Plus their mother was not the king's foster-sibling,” Bedivere shook his head, “so the relations ended with Kay. Although, Arthur was not much more than a child when he took up the throne.”

“Death has no sense of timing,” Gawain said, “The prince ascends whether he is ready or not.”

“Arthur, for the longest time, had little but the Merlin as his council,” Bedivere recalled, “Even then, the council did not dare cross the Merlin as long as there was a King nearby.”

“From what I understand the Merlin has had final say in Camelot for a long, long time,” Gawain told Bedivere.

“Get me the Merlin, will you?” Bedivere asked, suddenly unsure if relying on the Merlin's judgments, advice, and actions was the best thing for Camelot. For himself.

Gawain nodded and disappeared, leaving Bedivere to be truly alone for the first time in what felt like months.

Time, Bedivere decided, was something that, too, had abandoned him.

–

“They arrive,” Gawain roused Bedivere in the middle of the night, “the Knights, the few that are left.”

“In the middle of the night?” Bedivere murmured.

“They do not travel like Knights,” Gawain tried to explain, “but rather like thieves.”

Suddenly awake, Bedivere slipped a robe over his smallclothes, his bare feet cold again the stone that the autumn's night air had all but frozen.

“Has anyone else seen them?” Bedivere asked.

“No,” Gawain told him, “and the Merlin's halfway across the country, at least.”

“Good,” Bedivere set his jaw.

–

“Bors,” Bedivere hissed, having found him first, “Bors, what are you doing?”

“Bedivere!” Bors' voice was a whisper, but his surprise was palpable, “When the message said you'd sent for us as King we assumed it was a trap.”

“Being King is a trap,” Bedivere surprised himself by the words, “Where the hell were you?”

“Putting down a rebellion,” Bors explained, “What are you doing as King?”

“Who else do you travel with?” Bedivere asked.

“My son, Elyan,” Bors told him, “as well as Dinadan and Percival.”

“Gather them and we can all try to figure out why this is the first I'm hearing of a rebellion,” Bedivere told him.

In the watch torches' dim light, Bedivere saw Bors nod before he melted into the shadows again.

–

They reconvened around the ruins of the round table.

“Holy shit,” Elyan assessed the situation.

“Language,” Bors scolded his son.

Bedivere relayed to them the story of how he came to act as King, as regent, he really wasn't sure. He told them, too, about his reservations over the Merlin's power and control over Camelot.

“We left,” Dinadan's voice was hollow, “after the Grail was achieved because there was nothing good left to come to Camelot.”

“You weren't on the Grail quest,” Bedivere argued.

“No,” Dinadan looked directly at Bedivere, “but these two were, and if you really want to hear the horrors of what they were shown, if you really want them to relive everything rather than honestly _look_ at them, then by all means. Do that to them.”

Bedivere looked between Bors and Percival while Elyan fidgeted, anxious. 

“So what brings you back?” Bedivere asked, “And why in the dead of night like thieves?”

“You need to get out of here,” Bors told Bedivere, “There is nothing good to come out of keeping a reign that was never Arthur's, or even Uther's.”

“What do you mean?” Bedivere's face fell.

“Think about it,” Elyan prompted, “How many generations has the Merlin been pulling the strings?”

“Shit,” Bedivere hissed, not needing to think long or hard about it to see the point. Gawain, he noticed, had been strangely absent since the others had convened. 

“Let Camelot fall,” Bors winced as he said it, “let the cycle complete itself so that Arthur's return may be delayed no longer than it needs to be.”

–

Bedivere left the crown in the courtyard, free for anyone to take.

–

He hadn't seen the ghost of Gawain since the night the ghost informed him of the others.

–

The night Camelot fell to kingdoms who wanted her riches and lands for their own ends, Bedivere felt it, awoke screaming and sobbing.

“Hey,” Bors was the first to kneel next to him, “hey.”

“She's fallen,” Bedivere screamed, his voice raw and words pained, “Camelot. Camelot is no more.”

And, he knew, so too had the ghost of Gawain finally gone on to whatever holding pen awaited the rest of them at the end of this life.


End file.
